Brothers & Sons
by pherede
Summary: "Barsad has never coveted anything that belongs to his master." My first-ever attempt at an alpha/beta/omega story, per prompt. Bane is away when his omega Blake goes into a deadly heat; Barsad is the only one who can, uh, save him.


Barsad has never coveted anything that belongs to his master.

And in the grim dripping underworld of Gotham, everything that's worth having belongs to his master, and every creature that crawls below the asphalt sky wants what Bane has. The alphas in their decaying towers crave Bane's thousands of devoted subjects; the betas lust after Bane's possessions and his attention (and, if they are honest, the cabal of omegas he passes around as gifts and rewards); and the omegas want to belong to him, to whelp his children and rest under his protection.

Barsad has never touched one of Bane's omegas. There are six of them, carefully medicated to prevent heats, and perhaps once a year one of them will be groomed and dressed and paraded through the streets, guarded by well-trained betas with guns, to lie with some person whose cooperation has made Bane's life easier.

Once there were seven of them. And once there was a powerful man, Daggett, who spurned Bane's gift and returned a corpse three days later. Daggett is dead now, of course; still, there is a grave fear, a solemnity to the ritual. Each heat, each withheld pill, brings with it both a possibility of life and a terrible danger of death, and the line between the two is so narrow that any sane man fears to tread it.

Barsad is sane enough to avoid the omegas' compound entirely. It's the nature of beta hubris, especially once the bewitching scent of an approaching heat is in the air, to imagine oneself a mighty alpha, to picture oneself riding some wet-thighed omega to satisfaction and beyond. Even Barsad has these fantasies, curled in his hammock in Bane's underground warehouse home (he is lucky enough to be favored, and to sleep within summoning distance of his alpha), pulling roughly at himself until his eyes flicker shut and his feet curl.

It's the other fantasies that keep him sane, that keep him from the sin of covetousness. His proximity to Bane is, in many ways, a torment; the pheromones that rise from Bane's sweat are potent and sweet, and when Bane is angry or passionate or triumphant, no daydream of eager omegas can keep Barsad from imagining Bane on his body, brutal hands holding him down, huge cock splitting him like a wedge.

And on nights when Bane has his personal omega, his beloved slave Blake, in his bed... on those nights, the air is like a drug, and Barsad writhes himself to sleep, cock hard and angry for Blake, ass so desperate for Bane's abuse that he glistens wet like an omega.

Blake is not part of the cabal. He belongs to Bane, body and soul; he sleeps at Bane's feet, he eats from Bane's hand. If there is one thing Barsad wants, it is either to be Blake or to fuck him, and since he cannot decide which he wants, Barsad confines himself to what is safe, and refuses himself the luxury of coveting- even for a second- his master's place.

He knows Bane would give him an omega in heat, if he begged. He has done great things, terrible things, in Bane's service, and he is one of the two betas- along with Talia, wicked of mind and fierce in her devotion- to regularly receive any kind of caress from Bane, shoulder-squeezes that leave him shuddering and once a stroke of his cheek that dropped him to his knees. If he pled his case, he could have one of his own, an omega to ride to exhaustion and release; but then it would be upon him to satisfy that omega, to bring them to orgasm over and over until they were exhausted.

And even that would not be enough, if Bane didn't have someone lined up to impregnate his prize; the endorphins and pheromones of orgasm could prolong a heat and preserve the omega's life, but only breeding could end the danger. Any child that Barsad got upon one of Bane's omegas would be a bastard, competing with the children of Gotham's strongest alphas, miserable and destined for pain; and so Barsad focuses all his strength and his longing upon Bane and his pet Blake, serving and laboring, never allowing himself to hope.

* * *

On this night, though, Bane is absent, traveling with Talia to negotiate an exchange of weaponry at the north end of Gotham; he is not expected back for at least two days, and since his departure Barsad has been guarding his chambers and his personal omega with growing trepidation.

This is not the first time Bane has been gone for a night or more. He is a warlord, a conqueror; he has a kingdom to maintain. But on this night, Blake is restless, working himself to a pouring sweat on the exercise equipment that Bane keeps for him, pacing the room like a captive, and sleeping for no more than two hours at a time.

Barsad keeps his distance, though Blake's behavior worries him; even when Blake stretches out long and lean on the bed and begins to touch himself, Barsad is still in denial.

His denial doesn't last long, though. Barsad can count the words he's exchanged with Blake on one hand- one doesn't easily enter conversation with Bane's personal omega- but now Blake is calling him, watching him with those dark almond eyes while his hand wanders and strokes. "Barsad," he says, and his voice is desperate, charged with fear and hunger; "Barsad, I need you."

Just one step toward the bed, a weakness that almost ruins Barsad; one deep breath, and he knows everything he needs to know, and he is bolting from the room, yelling for the doctor, knees turned to water and belly turned to ice.

Crane confirms that it's a heat. He's not sure how it happened; maybe the pills were tampered with, or maybe Blake had a hormone spike. _These things happen_, he said. _The only thing to do is send for Bane._

There is no question of trying to sate Blake until Bane arrives. Every man and woman in Gotham knows it would be a death sentence for both of them; no alpha as powerful as Bane could allow their omega to betray them and live, and Bane has slaughtered men for looking at his beloved pet too intently.

Even when Bane doesn't arrive, and Blake spends his second day of heat begging, everyone keeps their eyes to the floor and murmurs what a tragedy it is, how horrible to listen to Blake suffer. Blake weeps, kicking and clawing at the barred door of Bane's quarters; the only people who will come close enough to speak with him are the omegas, who kneel outside his door two and three at a time, horror-stricken and sympathetic. They can't stay long; the smell of Blake's distress is painful to them. Most of them double up on their meds.

Night falls, and still Bane doesn't arrive. Crane estimates another eight hours before Blake begins to suffer organ failure, rhabdomyolysis, the dissolution of his body tissues from the intensity of his hormone storm and the subsequent destruction of his kidneys and lungs as the waste products shred his blood vessels. Like a belly full of glass, says Crane, keeping a scented handkerchief over his face as he looks down at Blake's shivering form.

Six hours left. Blake is a sweating mess, and Barsad braves the door of Bane's quarters, sitting just outside the man's reach to speak with him. Bane would be livid, but it's a cruel death, and Barsad knows what it is to long for Bane until the chest hurts and the stomach cramps, and no man deserves to die alone on the whim of a single pill.

"I wanted to have his children," says Blake, wiping his eyes with one shaking hand. "My god, I thought I would someday, I really did. He's so... he's so _good_ at it, Barsad, did you know he's only knotted me four times? He kept me in heat once for a month, just... just fucking me ragged, prolonging the agony. And every time I thought he'd let me keep it."

Barsad closed his eyes, trying not to imagine. Bane kept Blake on some very expensive medications, pills that kept him from conceiving even when bred; it would have been too dangerous for Bane, to have children here in the sewers while enemies lurked so close by, and now it was an opportunity gone for good.

* * *

Four hours to go, and Blake is beyond weeping; he's shivering, curled naked on Bane's bed, clutching one of Bane's shirts to his face and smelling it, moaning into it, as he rubs himself with the heel of his hand. It's not really arousal, he's explained; it's like starvation, he feels weak and shaky and irritable, and masturbating takes off the faintest edge of it. Barsad watches him, unabashedly hard, eyes swollen from repressed tears and mouth dry with Blake's loveliness, letting the intoxicating scents wash over him.

Barsad can picture the aftermath of this: Blake's slow suffering death, Bane's inevitable return, the rage and destruction. Men will die; Barsad, probably, will lose his life for being so close to Blake while he dies, for taking the precious last hours of his company that are owed to Bane. It is unbearable; if he could only sate Blake a little, if he could bring him just enough relief- but Bane rules millions at this point, and his enemies are strong and subtle, and the weakness of letting a treacherous omega live could topple the whole empire and leave them all defenseless.

And even now, he must be the strong one; Blake is too far gone, too wretched in his suffering, to resist if Barsad pressed him.

An unspeakable idea rises in the root of Barsad's mind, a suicidal plan. If he took Blake against his will-

He would be torn apart. Bane would kill him with his bare hands, would kill him slowly and painfully... and Blake would live, and Bane would be free to keep him, a devoted protector, a powerful alpha. There would be no question of dominance.

The strength of this idea, the ferocity of it, shakes Barsad to the core. No sooner she thought it than he knows he must do it; there is no other beta like him, no one- not even Talia- who could disobey their master for his own sake. There is, after all, no other beta here in Bane's chambers, no one brave enough to sit on the floor by the bed while Blake shivers and rocks and pulls at his flesh; and if Barsad's sexual experience is limited to interludes with other betas, diminished into distant memory of times before he belonged to Bane... perhaps he can ease Blake's suffering, even if he can't sate him.

Barsad reaches out with one trembling hand, steels himself, and lays his palm across the arch of Blake's foot.

Blake stiffens; the slow incessant movement of his hand on his cock pauses, and he whines, low in his throat. "Barsad, don't tempt me."

"I'm not tempting you," says Barsad, and his voice seems far away and small. "You have no choice."

"I belong to Bane," says Blake, but as Barsad's fingertips rove upwards around his ankle his lips part and he groans, burying his face in Bane's shirt.

"As do I," says Barsad, and he breathes in Blake's scent, letting the sickness and dizziness of longing goad him upward onto the bed. It's a swift, terrible movement; it's a point of no turning back, and now that Barsad is crouched over Blake's shivering body, he knows that he is a dead man, and all that remains is to sell his life dearly.

"Blake," murmurs Barsad, and dips his face to nuzzle at the omega's neck, feeling the pulse under Blake's skin with his lips. "Blake, look at me. You can't fight this."

"Yes I can," protests Blake, but then he moans at Barsad's touch, and he turns as if to push Barsad off him and ends up flat on his back, chest heaving. "Oh god, Barsad, don't do this, you'll kill us both."

"Spread your legs," says Barsad, and when Blake delays he bites him, hard, on the shoulder. "I said _spread your legs_, Blake, do as I say or I'll hurt you."

Blake's pupils spill like ink to fill his eyes. He is breathing like a man running a race; his lips are red and swollen, and when Barsad snarls at him he spreads his legs and trembles as Barsad explores him with his fingers- at first gently, then weighing him down with his body as he finds Blake wet and receptive and squirming to get away.

It's like a drug, the scent of him; Barsad licks his fingers, tasting the pheromones, and Blake groans. He needs force, Barsad knows; he needs to feel the presence and the authority of an alpha, and so Barsad is ungentle, crushing him into the bed, grasping his thighs and dragging him into an easier position, assailing Blake's mouth with his lips and tongue and teeth until Blake's cries are little more than muffled wails and Blake is bucking underneath him, rutting up into his belly.

Barsad finally pulls away, places a hand on Blake's sternum, and orders him to be still; this is difficult, a violation of everything Barsad has trained himself to do for years, and for Blake's sake it has to be perfect, it has to be aggressive and authoritative and controlling. He pinches one of Blake's nipples, cruelly; Blake hisses, and Barsad pinches him again: "You hurt beautifully, Blake, you were made for it."

Then he positions himself carefully, the head of his cock just resting against Blake's waiting entrance, and he fights a moment of terror and nausea: this is one of the things he has always wanted, and it is his now, and he will die for it.

With a snarl, he buries himself in Blake's ass, holding back nothing; Blake's back arches, and he lets out a broken cry. Barsad rides him hard, reaming him open, thrusting ferociously until sweat pours from his body and the smooth slick of Blake's gut against the sensitive shaft of his cock becomes a madness too enormous to resist; then he slows his pace, reserving his energy, and rises up to sit back on his haunches, dragging Blake into his lap as he goes. From here it's less work to rock into Blake's body, and it's easier to wrap a hand around Blake's cock, working it from root to tip with the wetness that seeps from the tip.

The sounds Blake makes are obscene: wet gasps that sound like kisses, little grunts and moans of impact that seem wrung out of him by force. Whenever he tries to get away, calling deliriously for Bane, Barsad grips his thighs hard, pulling him helplessly back, impaling him further while the loss of Barsad's hand on Blake's cock makes him keen and beg.

It's not long before Blake's gasps shallow and his body begins to jerk; Barsad plows him harder, works him unmercifully, and in a moment Blake's spilling himself (vestigial, sterile seed, little more than a vehicle for more potent pheromones) across Barsad's fingers and his own belly.

And Barsad doesn't let up. Blake pleads for mercy, for a rest, but Barsad wraps his hand in Bane's shirt and covers Blake's mouth with it. The scent of Bane's power, of his alpha-ness, is irresistible; within moments Blake is hard again, responding to that scent, and he mouths at the shirt like a child seeking the breast while Barsad disengages his hand from the cloth and returns to working Blake's cock.

It's like torture, in a way; and Barsad has tortured men for his master, he knows the dynamics. Blake is too sensitive, is too desperate; but Barsad pushes him, thrusting up into the sensitive depths of Blake's body, rolling his thumb across the red and twitching tip of Blake's cock, and it's not long before Blake is coming again, crying out in something between pain and ecstasy.

Barsad pushes him until the twitching of his ass is like a constant spasm, until he shudders with overstimulation every time Barsad touches his cock, until his eyes are unfocused and his voice is broken. It takes every ounce, every atom of his self-control; he wants to finish it, he can feel the tip of his cock beginning to swell with the need to pour his seed into Blake's body and lock himself within, and he knows he cannot resist much longer.

"It feels... _right_," gasps Blake, still racked with convulsions of pleasure. "It feels... god, Barsad, come in me now, I need it-"

It's at this moment Barsad knows he's lost, and with the last scrap of self-awareness he pulls himself out; he is already beginning to knot, and the pressure of his swollen cockhead inside Blake makes his omega- _his omega_, the folly of that- writhe in discomfort. Then he's out, falling back, reclined on the bed with the debauched Blake sprawled between his legs, and he's coming like a thunderstorm, spilling in torrents across his belly and chest, the wind knocked out of him by the force of his orgasm.

It is a feeling worth dying for, and even more so as he watches Blake slip into gentle, sated sleep. The bed is saturated with the scent of sex and pheromones, and Barsad does not bother to wash himself before creeping back to his hammock to sleep alone, to dream away his final few hours before Bane's return.

* * *

He awakens to roaring, Bane's voice raised in fury. He's out of his hammock before he's even fully awake, hurtling across the room, throwing himself across Blake's cringing body, and he takes the first blow directly to his chest; it flings him back against the wall, a limp doll beside Bane's wrath. "It was my fault," he's saying, scarcely able to hear himself, terrified for Blake and torn to ribbons inside from the pain and rage in Bane's voice. "It was my fault, I forced him, I raped him-"

"You _dared_," says Bane, low and vicious. "You presumed to _touch_ him? To lay a hand on him? Barsad, are you utterly mad?"

"I couldn't let him- he was-" Barsad is sobbing, shameful; he wonders how he ever thought he could bear this, and he hopes Bane will kill him quickly, because this hurts more than he thought possible. "He was dying, my lord, he refused, he said he would rather die than betray you- and I know he is precious to you- my lord, I forced him, I raped him. Kill me now, kill me please, just kill me and be happy with him-"

There is no sudden death, no rending grasp, no breaking of his bones. Bane stands at the foot of the bed, fists clenched and mighty chest working like a bellows. "Of all the men who might have done this, Barsad, why _you_? Knowing I would have to kill you? How could you _do_ this?"

"Better... better me than him," Barsad manages, unable to even meet Bane's eyes. "You love him, my lord, and he loves you, and I would rather... I would rather die than see either of you suffer."

"Brother," says Bane, and his eyes are so sad; "did you think I could kill you, my dearest friend, and not suffer?"

Barsad can't say anything to defend himself; he is waiting, still waiting for his own death, and he hopes it comes quickly, and he hopes it does not distress Blake too much. He feels Bane come to him, and he feels the might of those hands as he is lifted to his feet, only instead of pain he feels Bane's arm wrap around him and hold him, crushing him into Bane's chest. The scent of him is intoxicating; Barsad's hands clutch helplessly at Bane's sides.

"I know what you meant to sacrifice," says Bane, and his voice rumbles in Barsad's ear. "I know that John took what you gave, and I know the service you've done me. Death is an unfit reward."

"He still needs you," says Barsad, helpless and reeling with that voice and those hands. "I sated him; I did not breed him, and if you knot him soon- even twice- he will whelp you children, and probably more than one."

"He will be bred," says Bane, and there is a fire in his voice that shakes Barsad to the core. "But first- I would like to see what I missed."

Blake spreads for him easily, twining his arms around Barsad's neck and gazing up at Bane with unbearable adoration; this time there is no need to be forceful, no need to push Blake over into orgasm. Bane is here, kneeling behind Barsad like a wall of blazing flesh, rocking Barsad forward into Blake's yielding body; heat and wet and the confusion of chemicals, hungry omega-scent and dangerous alpha-scent, are an enfolding haze that pulls Barsad forward into bliss, until he feels his orgasm building into inevitability and knows that he must pull back now, or be lost.

But as he pulls back, Bane's hands close on his hips, and he is thrust forward again. "God, sir, no," says Barsad, gasping with the effort of stilling his hips; "I'm close, I'm so close, let me go or I'll knot him."

"You have no choice," says Bane, low and dark in his ear, and Barsad feels wetness spreading in him like an omega in heat as he comes, filling Blake's body with his seed.

He's still gasping with it, feeling the throb of his knot where he's joined to Blake, when Bane's cock breaches him; it's a testament to how profoundly Barsad responds to his master that he is as open and slick for Bane as Blake was for him. Though it's still a stretch, and he howls at the burn, and as Bane shifts his weight and begins to rut into him in earnest, his voice tears out of him in tatters and groans, and Blake joins him, taking Barsad's still-swollen knot as if it's Bane himself.

Barsad could not have imagined this. Beneath him, Blake responds to Bane's alpha aggression with sublime acceptance; above him, Bane is working him as brutally as any omega has been bred, and Barsad comes again, helpless, while Blake shoots his warm seed between them. Bane rides him until he is in an agony of pleasure, as sensitive as Blake had been last night; and Blake takes every motion of it, unfurling in bliss and submission until Barsad is so wrecked and so exhausted that his knot subsides at last and he slips out.

At this, Bane withdraws from him, and letting Barsad fall limp across Blake's willing body- too exhausted even to hold his own weight- Bane plows into Blake with renewed force, thrusting into him only a few times before groaning into orgasm while Blake wraps his legs around both of them, rocking up into the pair of them for one last paroxysm of pleasure.

Bane is knotted to Blake for a long time, but he will not let Barsad creep away to his hammock; instead, the three of them curl together, cradling each other, drifting away into sated slumber. The weight of death lifts from Barsad's heart, feeling Bane's warmth across his skin; he is no longer a mere beta, a face on the outside. He is _Bane's_ beta, and this is his family, his alpha and his omega, his beginning and his end.

* * *

It is a cold morning, only a little past midwinter; Crane is bent over the foot of the birthing bed, coaxing and prodding, and Bane is waiting silent and massive beside, while John clutches his hand and grimaces with the effort of birth. Barsad is at his other side, still not quite believing, but smoothing John's hair back anyway, murmuring encouragement in his ear.

They are twins, fraternal, a litter; a boy, dark-curled with John's smile and Bane's piercing, curious gaze; and a girl, with a thatch of gold-brown hair and haunting blue eyes, Barsad's own eyes with an almond upturn to the corners. John holds them both, one at each nipple, and his eyes shine with pride; Bane lets his forehead rest against John's, and pulls Barsad into their embrace, the three of them and their children and their love, which nothing can divide.


End file.
